


Foolish Among the Desperate

by Kennel_Boy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/pseuds/Kennel_Boy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being injured in a darkspawn ambush, Zevran becomes uncertain whether or not the Warden will find him worth the trouble of keeping around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish Among the Desperate

Two elements kept the darkspawn ambush from being a complete success: the vigilance of the Warden’s loyal mabari and the brutal stupidity inherent to Ogres. When the dog stopped short on the march to bark menacingly at the seemingly empty road, the unseen enemy answered with a ground-shaking roar, then charged out of wind-twisted evergreens lining the mountain road, throwing uprooted trees and clouds of dirt ahead of it with every step. A cluster of Genlocks and Shrieks charged behind the Ogre, undaunted. They had lost the element of surprise, but it hardly mattered. It was one thing for the enemy to see an Ogre coming, but another entirely to be able to stop one as it was bearing down on them.

Zevran was cut off from the rest of the party in the first rush. He managed to get his back of Feddic’s wagon, keeping a trio of Gemlocks from getting into a flanking position and swarming him. Even the blighted creatures drew back from his blades, he knew it was only a momentary advantage. All it would take was one of these stunted bastards to come at him with an actual longsword, and the difference in reach would be enough to finish him off. 

He lashed out with both daggers to buy himself half a breath in which to maneuver, then dove under the wagon, rolled, and sprang to his feet on the other side. He was in the thick of the fight now, but in a far better position, able to slip up behind darkspawn and hamstring, backstab, or otherwise creatively cripple them while they were occupied with trying to kill Zevran’s recently acquired comrades-in-arms. Already, they were making short work of the enemy, but the dwindling darkspawn numbers meant the Ogre could more easily pick their fighters out of the melee. It charged down the center of the fray like a maddened bull, grasping blindly at whichever target was in reach. And this time, Zevran couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.

The Ogre’s brutish grip on Zevran’s body tightened as it swung him off the ground, crushing the air from his lungs. Zevran struggled to jerk an arm free and bring his dagger into play, even now sparing one of his potentially last moments before meeting the Maker to resent the indignity of his situation. Being pulped in a filth-encrusted paw like a mosquito, foetid breath wet on his face...this was no way for a Crow to die!

“Zevran!” The shout actually managed to carry over the melee, but Zevran was in no position to be impressed.

‘Busy, Warden! Perhaps we can discuss it later?’ But his vision was greying out, and he had not even enough breath to throw one last sarcastic quip out to the world. Ferelden truly hated him.

A fresh roar distracted him from the business of dying. The Ogre began to suddenly jerk and thrash like a dog at the end of its tether, squeezing Zevran again in its rage. The Dalish Warden’s bloody, fiercely tattooed face crested over the beast’s shoulder, his lips thin against very white teeth as he snarled a return challenge to the enormous darkspawn. With the swiftness of a striking snake, he stabbed his short sword down into mottled, knotted flesh and used the handhold to pull himself astride the Ogre’s shoulder. The bloodied steel of his dar’misu gleamed in his free hand as he gathered himself to lunge.

 _”Na melana sahlin!”_ The Warden’s battle cry seemed to dwarf the Ogre’s roar and lend his arm fresh strength as he threw himself forward. The wicked curve of the Dalish dagger split the jelly of the Ogre’s eye down the center, then the wound was obscured by a pulsing gush of black blood. 

Finally distracted, the Ogre released its grip, allowing Zevran to fall. Zevran scrambled out of the way of the melee. He regained his feet with far less grace than he would have liked, but came up with a blade in hand. He’d been shaken like a ratter’s catch and the ground seemed to be swaying under his feet, but he did not want to be caught seeming weak.

It was all wasted effort in the end. By the time Zevran was standing again, the Ogre was down and no one was paying him any mind at all. The rest of their little group of cast-offs were drawing around the kill, some to admire and some to criticize. He couldn’t hear anything over his own pulse hammering in his ears, but Morrigan seemed to be reprimanding the Warden for something or other. Likely for saving his life in such a spectacularly foolish manner. Or perhaps for saving it at all. The Warden remained crouched on the Ogre’s rib cage as she spoke, looking the very image of the blood-spattered, baby-eating Dalish from street rumors (not to mention entirely unimpressed with the lecture). He jerked his head toward Zevran and rose to his feet. The words were still a loss, but his attitude spoke volumes: “Make sure he’s in one piece, then you can harp at me.”

Zevran grinned through his disorientation and drew breath to speak...only to swallow down a yelp as agony stabbed down his ribs. He staggered and wound up flat on his ass as the Warden arrived.

"So, here we are again." Zevran gritted the words out between his teeth. "I lie help-helpless at your feet in the mud of a failed ambush. We really must stop meeting like this."

"You really need to shut your chatter, Arainai." The Warden dropped down to one knee, helped prop Zevran up, and began undoing the assassin's leather cuirass. His sword-calloused fingers made short work of the buckles, but with enough grace to avoid splitting themselves open on the hidden blades. The Warden let out a hiss of his own as he caught sight of Zevran's torso and the damage the assassin’s concealed knives had wrought in the Ogre's grip; the underarmor was as good as shredded with blood seeping through the thin padded shirt. Now the Warden’s hands fumbled as he jerked the shirt free, revealing slashed, dusky skin. Even if the cruel bruises the Ogre had inflicted had been given enough time to form, they wouldn't have shown for the blood.

"Morrigan!"

The Wilds witch rarely let anything stir her from her own pace, but the urgency in the Warden's voice hurried her by half a step. In a moment she was in the mud on Zevran's opposite side, assessing the situation with a glance.

"Tell me true, assassin," she said firmly, guessing the Warden’s concern at once, "were those knives of yours poisoned?"

"No," Zevran grunted. He wasn't so foolish as that. Besides, the choice of poison had to be tailored to the target, not splashed around like dockside rotgut.

"Good. Otherwise I would not waste the effort. Hold him still, Warden, but mind his ribs unless you wish to finish what the beast started." 

Baleful green power flowed from her fingers, bringing a blessed coolness that went deeper than flesh and numbed his wounds. But nothing came without a cost. Sharp, tugging pain trod on the heels of relief as that external power forced his flesh to knit with unnatural swiftness. It felt like being stitched back together by a blind dressmaker, and Zevran bit down on his lip, his hand spasming in the Warden's hold.

"I have you. Just hold on." The Warden's words were a warm breath against his hair. Zevran focused on the Warden's solid presence to distract himself, delved down past the pain to the niggling thread of his own curiosity. Of course Zevran had flirted with and teased the Warden as outrageously as he had the rest of the party after the man had spared his life, but that had gotten no reaction beyond the occasional mock-growl or verbal swat if the Warden was in a very good mood. So why the outrage at his manhandling? Why the fear that he might have been poisoned? Most importantly, could he turn any of this newfound concern to his advantage?

The pain stopped abruptly. Zevran sagged, panting in the Warden's grip, then forced his head up and flashed Morrigan a shameless grin.

"Finished already? A pity - I would endure a thousand Ogres to feel the skilled caress of an experienced, worldly woman such as yourself on my skin." The mage might have put him back together, but that hardly meant he had forgotten her frowning of disapproval of his...well, everything. Or that their verbal sparring seemed to be one of her preferred ways to break up the tedium of the road.

She only rolled her eyes and rose to her feet, brushing the mud from her robes. "You will be sore for a few days..."

"You know, that is usually my line."

"...but I have healed the worst of it," she finished, her tone suggesting that she was entirely certain that had been a foolish action. "Unless you wish to test my generosity, I would suggest you not exert yourself in the meantime." And then she left him to the Warden...

...who was already pulling away, his usual impatient expression firmly in place. He rose to his feet and turned back toward the Ogre; both of his blades were still buried in the hulking carcass. "See Bodahn about replacing your armor. We need to keep moving."

And Zevran was left sitting on the ground, wondering what in the name of Andraste's holy bosom he had overlooked.

=====================

So far as Zevran was concerned, Ferelden was miserably cold and wet at the best of times, and the land as a whole seemed to hold a personal grudge against him. While his preference would have been to focus his attention on the Warden and identify that thread of interest that he'd somehow missed, his curiosity was swiftly pushed to the back of his mind again as he realized that this blighted land was nowhere near done venting its displeasure upon him.

As their small, increasingly grumpy band continued on toward Orzammar, days of freezing rain brought on a chest cold. This would have been misery enough on its own, but Zevran’s ribs were still bruised down nearly to the bone on top of it. Coughing was agony, sneezing made his head swim, and by the third day, breathing itself had become a painful trial. It wasn't until he woke with chills chasing each other down to his very marrow and his skin slick with sweat that he realized just how serious his situation was.

He couldn’t fight in this condition. He’d be lucky if made it halfway through the day’s march without falling over. And his value to the Warden was uncertain as of yet. Asking for soft treatment at this point could well end with the Warden deciding he was more trouble than he was worth.

‘And so? You wanted to die, Arainai.’ But not like that, discarded and hacking his lungs out in the mud. Worthless again. No, he would have to endure until they reached the dwarves. Even if the Warden discarded him there, he could make his way. Wherever you could find more than two politicians in one place, there was work for assassins. Worthwhile ways to die.

To his credit, it was midday before Zevran collapsed.

=====================

Awareness crept back as reluctantly as a winter dawn, but no matter how he tried to resist, Zevran eventually had to give in to the inevitability of consciousness. He just wasn’t ready to let anyone who might be watching know that.

The first thing that struck him was that he was warm. Not the sticky, miserable burn of a fever, but a state of blanket-piled comfort he hadn’t experienced since he’d left Antiva. He was propped upright against several packs if the smell of trail-worn leather and the lumps digging into his back were any indication. Rough cloth brushed lightly against his skin with each breath. He was stripped to at least his waist, snugly swaddled in what had to be every spare blanket in the camp that he was barely able to twitch his fingers. 

He dared a deeper breath, surprised to find that his lungs had improved to where he could manage such a thing. The air was thick with the scent of herbcraft. The elfroot was familiar. The Warden was the sort to attract particularly violent trouble, and the earthy, sulphurous pall of peeled elfroot was as ubiquitous to the camp as woodsmoke. But there was a different quality to it this time: deeper, richer, not nearly as crisp. It was being cooked, he decided; the crackle of a nearby fire and the hollow scrape of metal against a cookpot a moment later seemed to confirm his guess. A less familiar herb lurked beneath the elfroot, something pungent and biting, but not wholly unpleasant, akin in scent to both mint and skunkweed. The sharp tang of evergreen in the air confirmed that they were still in the mountains, but that was expected. The unexpected was that he had woken at all, let alone in relative comfort.

“I know you’re awake.”

Well, so much for stealth. Zevran blinked with deliberate slowness, then stretched with what was intended to be feline languidity...only to cut off with a gasp as his movements let cold air into his warm little cocoon. The gasp gave way to a coughing fit, and Zevran gave up the pretense of obliviousness in favor of hugging the blankets close again. 

The Warden was crouched at a small fire near the laced tent flap, small bundles of fresh herbs lined up beside him. He was watching Zevran from beneath the wolf’s-head hood of his fur cloak. The shadows of the restless, wind-teased fire leaping across his dark skin made his expression indistinct, but the band of tattooing across his eyes had scrunched slightly northward, betraying a relieved, close-lipped smile. He hunkered down at Zevran’s side, movements accompanied by the faintest creak from his leather armor. 

“You owe Morrigan again. She took care of the fever and the last bruising on your ribs, but she couldn’t just magic the trash out of your lungs. So now you’re in the hands of the lesser herbalist.” He passed a steaming cup into Zevran’s hands. Bone broth, thin and smelling more of sweet anise than of meat, but all Zevran cared about at the moment was that it was warm. He all but hid his face in the cup until the heat of it had restored his sense of well-being and the steam flowing into his lungs had loosened the weight in his chest. 

When he finally looked up, the Warden was back at the fire, tending the pot of elfroot again. The firelight gleamed off the ivory fangs still studding the upper jaw of the wolf’s-head hood. His face was hidden in shadow again, save for pinpoints of flame reflected in his eyes. The hilt of his dar’misu with the elven carvings wreathed over the yellowed bone handle showed from beneath his cloak. Perhaps it would have been a more unnerving sight to most, this fey creature from foreign wilds, but Zevran had seen the Dalish up close and knew that they were as flesh and blood as any other elf, if fiercer than most. He also knew that the easiest way to break the spell their aloofness cast was simply to get them talking. And so he put his cup aside and put on a smirk he hoped masked his own uncertainty as to the Warden’s motivations.

“I must say, I’ve never been treated with such care by so fearsome a keeper.”

Reflected firelight stuttered as the Warden blinked. 

“I’m not...oh. Yes.” He laughed pushed back his hood. In one brief motion, the mysterious woodwose creature vanished like a dream, revealing a sheepish youth who bore no more resemblance to the haunt of moments before than he did the bloodied butcherbird crouched upon the breast of a still-twitching Ogre. 

“ _Abelas,_ ” he said, brushing a lock of lank hair behind one ear. “I was trying to keep the smoke out of my eyes. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” This time, the spark in his gaze was all sly teasing. 

“How lucky I am that I am in the perfect position should I feel the need to swoon.” Yes, banter was very much preferable to the last time he’d woken to the sight of the Warden: his hands bound behind him, a knife to his throat, and the Warden’s knee digging viciously into his belly. The other elf really had taken the attempt on his life far too personally. “But it is an impressive piece of work, that cloak.”

That was not even flattery. Zevran was no furrier, but every Crow knew a bit about how garments fit together; it made hiding weapons (and spotting alterations meant for the same) much easier. The illusion of the cloak was that it was a primitive design, no more than one hide stripped from the beast, dressed, and allowed to drape as a single piece, with the hollowed brain case as a hood. But no wolf was so large, nor did a wolf’s hide follow the contours of an elf’s body so well. Two wolves had gone into this cloak, likely stitched together at the thick shoulder mantles to give the garment the extra length that let it drape from head to below the calf as a seemingly unbroken piece. The head had been worked and reinforced from within to hold its shape. The fur was the thick winter coat, so someone had run the risk of stalking the beasts during the short, miserable days of Fereldan’s cold season. And no wolf was so uniform a black as the Warden’s cloak; it had even been dyed to nearly the same shade as his hair. Someone had taken pains to match the garment to its wearer.

And yet complimenting it caused the Warden’s smile to vanish.

“My thanks,” he murmured, turning his attention back to the fire. For a moment, Zevran thought he would have to drag conversation from the man, but then he spoke again. “My _da’ma…_ , ah...my foster mother presented it to me after I took my _vallaslin_.” He ran the edge of the cloak between his first two fingers, his thoughts obviously not within the confines of the tent.

Zevran made a quick, splayed-finger gesture before his face with his free hand. “Those are your tattoos, yes?” He knew perfectly well what _vallaslin_ was, of course, but he was going to keep this elf talking. This was the best chance he’d had yet to get past the Warden’s guard and he did not intend to waste it.

It seemed to have worked; even that small bit of knowledge in common had the Warden’s smile creeping back into view. “Yes. She was always good with furs and stitching. My hunt-brother, Tamlen, killed the wolves. And they badgered old Paivel until he helped them barter for the lining.” Another point in favor of the cloak’s craftsmanship; Zevran had thought it to be only fleshed. The Warden laughed quietly, still more with his thoughts than with Zevran. “They must have planned it for months without my knowing. And that was even though none of them approved…” 

“Yes?” Zevran prompted as the Warden trailed off. 

“It’s complicated to explain to an outsider.” But there was a wariness to his expression that made Zevran suspect that ‘complicated’ wasn’t anywhere near the true reason for his fresh reluctance. Interesting. The Warden was not as skilled as keeping up his mask as he believed, but such was the foolishness of youth, and it was good to feel out where his weak spots were. Even so, his defenses were back up and Zevran was sure he wasn’t going to get more out of him without giving up something of himself first. 

“My mother was Dalish,” he said. It was best to give up old information of no personal importance first, especially since this was almost certainly something they had in common. The Warden did not strike him as an acclimated city elf. “Try me. Perhaps I can keep up.” 

Silence from the Warden, whose attention had turned back to the cooking elf root. He spread a ragged gray banner, likely scavenged from some battlefield along the way, on the floor of the tent, doubled it over, and spooned several ladles of pale, glistening root onto the cloth. He swept up a few leaves from the floor and crushed them lightly between his hands. More of that pungent faux-mint smell Zevran had noticed before flooded the tent. Finally, the Warden lay the mangled leaves atop the elfroot, folded the banner over itself again, and headed over to where Zevran was lying.

“Here. Hold this to your chest.” He pushed the wrapped elfroot into Zevran’s arms. 

The first flush of heat against his skin was almost enough to burn, and Zevran stifled both a gasp and the reflex to push it away. “Ngh! If you did not want to answer, a simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”

“Imagine if we’d decided to leave you wholly to Morrigan. She wouldn’t have bothered wrapping the poultice first. So hush, breathe deep, and let it do its work.” The Warden settled cross-legged at Zevran’s side instead of returning to the fire. 

“It isn’t our usual way to keep the head on a wolf cloak,” he said at last, picking up the story again. “Mine was both a gift and a caution. One of the first sayings we Dalish learn growing up is that only the desperate and the foolish put themselves in the jaws of the wolf.” The last said as if it were an explanation itself.

Zevran took an obedient breath, using the time to contemplate what he’d just been told. The heat plus the fumes from the herbal mix did seem to be shifting the muck in his lungs, as well as clearing his head. But still…

“I am afraid I do not follow,” he said at last. “I assume that is a reference to your Dread Wolf, but I am not sure how that connects specifically to you.”

The Warden nodded his approval. “The more typical use is as a proverb about being able to trust those you run to for protection. But yes, it does literally refer to Fen’Harel in some of the tales. And I suppose it applies to me in both senses. 

“When I took my vallaslin,” he went on, “I dedicated it to Fen’Harel.” The Warden traced a calloused finger over the angles and curves tattooed across his brow and down the bridge of his nose. Zevran followed the etchings over the younger elf’s dark skin, gradually picking a the stylized wolf skull from a pattern that seemed to be trying to elude him in the unsteady light.

“One’s choice of god is not considered a secret,” the Warden went on, “but it is very personal. To try and turn another from their dedication before the ceremony...well, rude does not come near to covering it. But just because you cannot say ‘do not’ to a decision, it doesn’t mean you cannot have an opinion on it. And my foster-mother most certainly had an opinion.” He pulled the hood back up to emphasize the point, flashing a grin from the depths of its shadows.

Zevran laughed, unexpectedly tickled by the story.

“Ah, now I see.” He turned his head aside to cough, then went on. “It is a way to say, ‘we think you are an idiot, but we will keep you around anyway’, but without the awkward conversation that comes with the declaration.”

“I don’t think the awkwardness would have been a deterrent. It was definitely custom that spared me several lectures on the matter. Ironic, considering that my choice is less than customary.” The Warden dragged a water skin from a pile of supplies and held it out in wordless offer. Zevran took it with a nod of gratitude and drank deeply. As much as he adored the heat, the air within the tent was getting a bit oppressive. 

“It was my understanding that Fen’Harel is an evil god,” he said when he’d slaked his thirst. “So I would think their consternation is not to be wondered at.”

“He is the trickster god.” There was a defensive edge to the Warden’s words now. “Harsh, untrustworthy, and invested only in promoting his own interests. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be learned from him. Particularly when it comes to watching your tail and being ever more clever than your enemies.”

“As you say. The finer points of the Dalish religion are not a specialty of mine.” But he had tried it once upon a time, hadn’t he? He’d sat at the feet of the old storyteller, standing out among the children like an open sore on a young whore’s lip, and swallowed the tales down like water in the Drylands. And what had it gotten him in the end? An unpleasant awakening in one of the Crows’ torture chambers with elven faces leering down at him through their own vallaslin. A sickening reminder that there was nowhere in Antiva beyond the reach of the Crows. He frowned and swallowed down the last of his broth. Suddenly, he was very tired of this dance with the Warden. All he wanted to do was curl around the ball of heat against his chest and sleep. But he knew that abandoning the conversation wasn’t a luxury he could indulge in.

“So which one are you?”

Zevran cocked his head to one side, surprised at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Are you desperate or a fool?” The Warden emerged from his hood again. “I assumed the first when you pledged yourself to me, but after this, I’m willing to admit that it might be the second.”

Zevran fashioned another false smirk. “Must I be one or the other? Perhaps I am foolish as well as desperate.” 

“Uniquely foolish among the desperate, perhaps. No one else here would have been idiot enough to march in the cold thinking they could push through such sickness.” Zevran opened his mouth to counter, but the Warden cut him off. “Alistair would have been whining as soon as his fever kicked in. Leliana is too intelligent to wreck herself needlessly. Morrigan would tend to herself. And Sten is too pragmatic to risk putting us down a warrior. Even the dog has more sense.”

“Well.” Zevran rolled his shoulders in a no-care shrug, but could feel the tension trying to coil back into his exhausted muscles. “You must admit, my position here is not exactly secure. I am the hired killer who tried to put a knife in your back not a fortnight gone. It seemed a bit too soon to be asking for favors.”

“Look around.” The Warden folded his arms over his chest and, glared down at Zevran. “Do you see a wall of Grey Wardens standing by to combat the Blight for us? An army at my command to push Logain’s soldiers aside? No. What I have right now are the people in this camp. If we can rouse Arl Eamon and _if_ he is not too put out that I sacrificed his wife to save the lives of his son and his people, I am promised one legion of demon-gnawed shemlen as a start to our army. But that’s days down the road and likely a fool’s quest at any rate. Right now, I need every blade I can muster. Even the ones that may take some repair. Am I clear?”

That explained why they were heading for the Dwarves instead of Denerim and this Brother Genitivi, at least: the Warden was hoping to find a more solid start to their army in Orzammar. Despite the fact that he’d just been insulted several times over, Zevran relaxed back against his lumpy, dubiously-scented couch. He hadn’t had all of his questions answered, but he had learned enough about his immediate future to satisfy him for the moment. 

“Entirely.”

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. And you’re riding in the back of Bodahn’s wagon until I’m satisfied you’ve got strength again.”

“Ah, so I am to be put under guard with the rest of our dubiously-gotten spoils? If you keep flattering me so, Warden, I will surely fly to your bed.”

The Warden snorted and dropped the water skin at his side before taking Zevran’s cup for a refill of broth. “Shut up, drink, and get some rest. Just because I’ll keep you from dying doesn’t mean you get to lie idle any longer than need be.”

Sleep sounded like such an astoundingly good idea that Zevran gulped his herb-clogged broth without complaint, then burrowed as far beneath the blankets as he could manage. The rattling in his chest still brought on the occasional coughing fit, but it was getting easier to clear his lungs each time. And yes, he was curled around a bundle of mushy elfroot that would leave his hair stinking of rotting plants for days, but he was warm inside and out, his stomach comfortably settled, and he had the unimaginable luxury of letting his guard down at least partway as he drifted into a far more welcome unconsciousness than before. 

The Dalish could keep their proverbs. For the moment, he was finding the wolf’s jaws the most pleasant of resting places.

**Author's Note:**

> The Warden [does have a name](http://northstarfan.tumblr.com/post/97130270186/30-day-grey-warden-challenge-day-1), but given how open and friendly he isn't, you can probably take a guess at why no one seems much inclined to use it casually. ;) And it really won't matter unless I write more of these two anyway.


End file.
